The Best Dialogue Poems

I thought I would go backwards
Into my uncertain
My awkward
The days of my wondering
What will I be when I grow up?
Will I ever grow up?
Is everyone better than me?
Boy I wish I could be more like that
That guy
Yep him
The athletic confident one
Words come so easy to him
Jokes flow freely from his lips
And they laugh
They love being with him
What's it like to be that self assured?
He has so many friends
None of them would ever talk to me
What would it be like to hang out with the cool kids?
I try telling myself
It doesn't matter
I have a few friends
I want it to be enough
I think it's enough
With them
I imagine and pretend
To be funny
Interesting
Until
One smile
One chuckle at a time
I gradually become me
A better more confident self
Assured
Witty
A lover of words
Dialogue
Conversation
I talk my way towards my future
While listening for clues
Building myself two by twos
Real friends are the ones I choose
Their words
Teach me about them and myself
I don't hide on lonely street
There are more people to meet
So I jump up off my seat
Rewrite myself on many a sheet
Until I can follow and hear my internal beat
Do what needs doing
Repeat and repeat
Until I come to here and now
Breathless with WOW
Understanding HOW
That uncertain and awkward part
Changed everything
It still is
And
Always
Will be
An important part of me
Because it helped me see
There are many many
Incredible
Significant and individual
ways to be
So now I choose
Care Free!

-Dear, Mr & Mrs Poet-
Do you ever question where it comes from?
This poem's about you, sit down and get a load off
Tranquilize your pen, take heed to the ecstatic applause
The things in life we take for granting, in time get worse
From WHICH' our lives transverse, ascends a deep poetic curse
You write almost everything, rehearsing every living verse
Embezzling words, like Martha Stewart, ---NOT YOURS!
Withdrawing from your substance,
--yielding it to others, who aren't devoted lovers
Spacing your lines, ready for reader's digest,
Educating the mind, like Albert Einstein
You paint a different horizon for the color blind,
Drop a note, forecasting the news, that brings, Spring to mind
Your adrenaline, leaves people with a feel good faint.
At this level, Poet you're better than high speed Internet,
Anything that makes you feel this is the real deal,
Today, you write like there's no tomorrow, borrowing yesterday's clay
Inspiring ink, left to right, feeding the need to breed a poetic degree
Your dramatic dialogue, deserve 'The Peoples Choice award."
I love the sweet audio, when you lowercase every word
It's done so well, hell, let's never capitalize another word
Reaching a point across, when capitalizing every letter,
This is your world, take it, manipulate it, with the perfect stanza
Produce it like a poetic film, imagery, action, CUT it like Jerry Bruckheimer
One day Hollywood will incite a roll, looking for the best poetry soup rhymer
Your tears and affection, you pour on partial paper,
Showing every word you want to enunciate
A SHOULDER-- gone cold, drowning, forgetting the normal way
Writing about the pure religion that meets your light,
A beautiful flower under the moonlight
Hear the bells, Poe wrote about, adding sprinkles to the twinkle in your eyes,
A redolent scent not meant to be forgotten, from Eden's garden
Taking nature, by course, granting her a crown, before slamming us down
I will call her out --The evil and the fury of a goddess, a beast
This is my feast, I welcome you to my jungle, and the outer bounds of time.
If you ever question where it comes from?
Sit down and get a load off, listen---Where's the ecstatic applause?
I'm not afraid to say, -----I'm Proud to be A Poet Without A Cause
by;PD
I do it for fun

Abandoned
just when I needed you most
Departing
leaving behind an emotional ghost
Pain
it hurts so much
Sorrow
tears won't stop
Promises
broken without any thought
Regret
too late to be sorry
Communication
broken down without dialogue
Actions
no substance in the performance
You promised to wipe away my tears
to hold me in this world full of fears
through my most severe trials and tribulations
guaranteed to love me without confrontations
Walking away believing no one exists for you
leaving everything deluded by what is not true
Bitter, stubborn, ignorant to how I am feeling
oblivious to that heart you are warily stealing
Nocturnal animal you stay awake at night
reluctantly sleeping at the sight of light
Open your mind and enable your heart to feel
think carefully - this could be your final meal
I yearn for you, like the night lingers for the stars
because when love is true like romantic memoirs
even those who in haste - foolishly depart
the heart will never let them stay apart
The Silent One
17 November 2015

I am a pacifist I despise war.
It’s the only thing I actually hate.
I’m never able to brace myself for
Diplomacy that deteriorates:
Recriminating dialogue amuck
That results in irrationality.
Adults become intellectual schmucks
Whose mentality in reality
Is equivalent to a chimpanzee
In spite of our advances in science.
Our mentality still swings from the trees
Where once apish self’s had claimed provenance.
We haven’t evolved from our ancient source
Thus war is likely a matter of course.

He’s just a dog, a mongrel pup that fitted in me hand,
short haired, tan and white, with needs of high demand,
he’s whingy and he’s whiny, I s’pose he misses Mum,
but now his Mum and Dad are what me wife and I become.
And the recommending is that we must take him to the vet,
to have all his virus shots with rates that put us into debt,
we had to have him micro-chipped in case of getting lost,
and then de-sexing and to register all added to the cost.
We made a fuss of him and spoilt him rotten to the core,
even after peeing on the carpet on the lounge room floor,
we fed him ‘smackos’, munchies, and tins of high-class meat,
and let him lick our plates for a special little treat.
We knew we shouldn’t feed him sitting at the dinner table,
but when those eyes stared through me, I just wasn’t able
to ignore the little blighter who was pleading for a crust,
and of course I’m feeling guilty, so ignoring is unjust.
He mightn’t talk, but body language gets his tale across,
by demanding his intentions with a bark “I am the boss!”
That can mean our double bed, becomes one of his beds,
it’s a God given right to scratch a pillow into shreds.
He’s just a dog, but as he grew from pup to fully grown,
there are more human aspects that our little dog has shown.
He’s believing in his own mind, we are not his Dad and Mum,
because now he is the King, and slaves we’re now become.
Dogs shouldn’t have to take a bath; a chain should be denied,
and a dog definitely should never have to sleep outside,
to prove his point before its dawn our actions are defied,
he’s barking at the back door demanding to be let inside.
He’s just a dog with habits that does reimburse our training,
he licks his bum and then me face, and thinks it’s entertaining,
then rubs his bum along the carpet, so we have to come to terms,
that we have to medicate him… ‘oh my God it’s bloody worms!’
The more we tried to train him, then the more he’s training us,
for he always gets his own way when he’s kicking up a fuss,
his wicker chair and blanket are for him and him alone,
and every week on shopping day he gets a king size bone.
And doesn’t he love visitors; it’s all ‘welcome to my joint,’
wagging tail and somersaults, but to get more to the point,
if he can’t grab the sole attention when he sits up and begs,
then it becomes acceptable to go humping people’s legs.
It took him very little time to claim the television set,
he’s the closest to the heater, and he does get quite upset
if we don’t take him in the car… and now when being fed,
he’s expecting us to feed him, his brekkie in our bed.
The house is rearranged these days to suit his every need,
each day by his insistence he is walked upon the lead,
we bow to all his wishes, to his commands and dialogue,
but for anyone who drops in… they only see a bloody dog.

Dialogue of {Place}
Should I whisper words
that hang on memory’s peaks,
cumulous across my forehead?
A world of words - connected
like tides to the moon.
Words that mingle and rise,
as mist from a valley
or, dwell in half forgotten dreams;
endless as ocean waves,
or vistas of flowering fields.
Beautiful words
that tell me of my place.
Suzanne Delaney

I cannot presume
To tell anyone
What a warrior is.
Nor do I claim
To embody any
Of his qualities.
All I offer here
Is a collection
Of impressions
Or meditations.
A warrior is
A state of being;
Armaments
Are mere props.
The only weapon
He might possess
Is implacable resolve
In the face of
Extreme adversity.
A warrior's language
Or internal dialogue
Has no allowance
For the phrase,
"I can't."
All the same,
He discriminates
Between causes
That are just and
Those that are not.
He determines the
Character, as well as
The time and place
Of his battles,
Investing himself utterly.
And he remains
Ever prepared
For those who would
Bring their battles
To him.
Yet a warrior meets life
On its own terms
With no delusions
Of bending it
To his own will.
Self-pity is a
Useless indulgence,
Yet he has compassion
For the weak; he never
Places himself above
Others, for how can he?
All this being said,
And human nature
Being what it is,
His greatest enemy
May yet be none other
Than himself.

“Once very near the end I said, 'If you can -- if it is allowed –
come to me when I too am on my death bed.”
“Allowed!' she said. “Heaven would have a job to hold me;
and as for Hell, I'd break it into bits.”
Oh God, God, why did you take such trouble to force
this creature out of its shell if it is now doomed to crawl back
-- to be sucked back -- into it?
~ C.S. Lewis, A Grief Observed
__________________________________
The division should be acute,
the before her, the with her,
the after her.
There is this constant
rattling of doors, though they remain
locked, in theory. I think of her
as gone until I turn a page,
read a passage of pompous
dialogue and she returns,
My Joie de Vivre,
entertaining me with that puckish
play, unabashed.
She smiles in the dusk with crusading
colours that bend dark horizons,
changing clouds, unexpectedly.
What was I before Joy?
Content, pleasant, productive.
But was I alive, aware of life,
its blissful rhythms?
Irony defined:
the heart which awakened stone
no longer beats.
Finally, I understand.
Lessons are sharp things
which infect both fresh
and aging amputations.
What do I do with this knowledge?
It is like learning a language
that is no longer spoken,
a long monologue
unbearably forlorn, painful.
Faith dismisses hauntings,
yet she does so in daily degrees.
O, the sweet ghosts that peer
from those notes,
my name underscored in margins.
Why is there only one glove
in the sewing box?
Agony hunts me
in the garden. Perfume almost,
but not quite a match.
Some rooms have snares.
I dare not open a kitchen drawer.
Pain waits there.
The specter of my former self,
a staunch gent, so sure
of Heaven's role,
that cold bloke follows me
into the shadows,
land of man’s rage
and despair. There is no pretty
death, no words can comfort
the ravaged left behind,
There is no poetry
in our departing.
I only pray
there is Godspeed in mine.

relying on chance
trying to find a needle
inside a haystack
a well-balanced choice
a winner or a loser
you can bet on it
when tossing a coin
the most probable outcome
would be heads or tails
lack of dialogue
increases the probable
failure of marriage
waking up early
does not always guarantee
you’ll see the sun rise
weighing pros and cons
when faced with a decision
between right or wrong
------------------------------------------
Author: Paul Callus ~ 24th July, 2014
Contest: Haiku on Probabilities
Sponsor: Marvin Celestial
Placing: 2nd

Oh the images we freeze in time
the sweet, sweet scents that bring recall
the sharp and painful longing that belongings bring
for those lost or lingering on sheets of lavender
on shelves of shaving mugs - Old Spice
soap roped in shower stalls.Oh the images warmed and torn, sun burnt to brown
upon what's left of glossy crenulated sheets
showing frozen plumped out peeks of
blistering love, gape toothed girls
and sour apple dreams.
We freeze in time on scrapes and shards
on compasses far from the woodlands scene
the tobacco scent of Papa, his yellowed fingers
as they touched my dimpled chin,
blue eyes behind wire rims.
The sweet, sweet scents that bring recall
White Shoulder's between her wholesome breasts
Mother's satin, Chantilly drenched negligee
and father's black onyx ring
ah, I still have him.
The sharp and painful longing that belongings bring
guilty pleasures hidden from the public's tut-tuting eyes
hoarded in ornate boxes, or pressed between stout boards
relentless, heartless is the passing
passing into the frayed, worn fringes
of our dollop of mirrored time.
For those lost or lingering on sheets of lavender
with drawers of balsam pillows to recall the olden days
bring forth the buds which bloom on taffy and apple pie
do not forget the taste of the love
the cotton candy kisses
their first chocolate cone.
On shelves of shaving mugs - Old Spice
soap roped in shower stalls, no sense comes
without its call to memory. Oh you do not sit alone,
play all the old tunes from radio days
and invite your loved ones
to come home.
This is my form it is called Etcetera.
Definition: Write a line or a stanza, take from that line or stanza words in the
order they were written [ from 1 word to whole lines or phrases] begin your
next stanza with it continue until you have written using all the words in the
order written in the line or stanza being explored in depth in a stream of
internal dialogue. ALL poetic devises/tropes may be used INCLUDING internal
rhyme. The verse may be as long or short as you wish, no meter required, no
syllable count.
I would say Etcetera and Blitz are sub forms of Free Verse - Stream of
Consciousness - Etcetera- Blitz

The blue mood of silence, is there on the screen
Not a whisper, no dialogue, just a hum that is found
A celluloid reel, spinning backwards in time
while flickering shadows, has hushed all the stars
that watch through a curtain, while marking the years
The soft ocean breezes are catching your hair.
It frolics, embracing the blue dress you wear
You are running barefoot along the incoming tide
The beach is as smooth as the silk of your skin
You are flying a kite in the swift summer sky
You raise up your arm, and are waving at me
A smile on your mouth, and a star in your eyes
I can almost hear whispers, that come from afar
shattering silence, without any sound
The joy of it falls through the long winter years....
In voiceless, vague memory, to rest on my ears
I follow along...as I'm watching you play
Your lips ever moving....what is it you say?
I find myself reaching... still, wanting to catch
to set a small trap...and reach into the past
I can't hear the chords,....nor the score to your song
Or music I long for.....that is kept by the stars
But, here in the heart of this moment, I grasp
Like the kite reaching higher....while piercing the sky
Weaving a magic...where joy never dies
I watch how you hold to that kite in the sky...
and cross over the threshold....no questions to ask...
You've thrown a last kiss.....that I reach out to catch
And for a moment together, .... we are touching the stars....

When everyone goes east, he heads west
to him, every dialogue is a contest
comes into an interaction as the biggest
then leaves agonisingly as the lowest.
When he speaks, you know he is half-honest
even though he truly knows, but not near the best.
He always end up lost in the forest
this simple fact, he cannot digest.
The moment he shamefully fails the test
he begins to manifest
then becomes far from being modest
and everyone around him, he treats like unwanted guests.
Causing a general unrest
as he unnecessarily protest.
All over his countenance, ignorance crests
not accepting defeat, he holds high his egocentric chest.
Quick to make jest
but correction; he equates to incest
and disagreements, he always detest.
We all have the quest
to know and share the latest
so as to add value to ourselves and self-invest
which can be a cultivation to future harvest.
But knowing it all is impossible
and knowing half, believing to know all is ridiculous.
Admiting not to know it all is the fairest
but this is yet not comprehensible to him,
to whom; to know is like a conquest.
The wise keep quiet lest,
they cause him to become the tempest
and with every word, he neutralizes any palatable zest.
Oh poor child!
change or you'll suffer from everlasting molest
where no one wants to visit your nest
not because you are unblest
but cos of the truth of your infest
which now, is obviously clearest.
It is good to learn my child
and sharing is an attribute of Love.
But run away from half baked lines
or be humble enough to listen
while they become fully whole.
You were given two ears and one mouth
hence talk less and listen more
because an Ignoramus is always not far from becoming a fool!

I stood on the cliff and asked the wafting clouds exultantly,
"You greet me every morn, you watch me through
My windows and peer through the chinks,
You have been a mystical part of me through
My childhood when I skipped and jumped with friends
And through my confusion and confidence in adulthood.
What does the future behold for a dreamy me?"
The sky seemed bluer in the cloudscape and I heard echoes
" In the labyrinth of choices your future is sown in........your future is sown in
Your cherished dream was an unbelievable reality................believable reality
A kaleidoscopic ride after the nature you've churned out for self..........for self
An investment in optimism has enveloped you in calmaria..............in calmaria
Enjoy the fruit which is multiplying with interests......................with interests".
May14, 2015
For Skat A
Any Poem You Are Proud of # 3
(May 10, 2016
For Nayda Ivette Negron)
*Calmaria (Spanish)- after a storm comes calm
Poem is in a dialogue form; the second verse is an end line word poem.

The rich are getting richer
The poor are losing hope
Mother Earth is dying
Over populated
Polluted
War Torn
Anybody notice?
Is the Garden of Eden gone for good?
It starts with You
And it starts with Me
Recycle
Get Involved
Share
Listen
Accept Differences
Dialogue, not Bullets
We still have a chance
But do we have the time?
June 7th, 2013

Heavily tread, are those small fractious steps
On the stairs to my own peace of mind
The sound of transgressions that I'd rather forget
is the pounding of a most clamorous kind
The dialogue I'm having, within my own self
drums on the door of the closed minded truth
I try to rewrite scripts, shoving back on the shelf
But the turbulence shakes them loose
No matter, how buried, how deep I will hide them
My conscience can shovel them out
That child inside me, denies what was done then
But can't deafen the voices that shout
I profess to regret many sins I've committed
The most difficult task is one of admitting

__________________________________
Revised 4/6/13__
__________________________________
(Original Poem....Diminished Hexaverse)
MY CONSCIENCE
heavy on the stairs
the sound of my thoughts-
my own voice resounds
and pounds on my door
of solitary
the dialogue
within myself
never perjured
is translucent
I profess
to launder
past regrets
if stains
can be
cleansed
_____________
2/14/11
___________________________________________________________
Both poems submitted for Roy Jerden's Contest: "Makeover"

Canvas, calm, grinning. . .blank
Had words screamed, scarecrows trapped on the poles of their creators,
Had words formed psalms that barricaded the strongholds of the heart,
Divine despair would desperately take hold again,
Embellishing the muse
To smile, the impassive smile. . .confuse
Enraptured by your tail,
Coiling, boiling in the hot and hungry sun
The eyes, clouded, caught in a moment of inexorable suffering
Death glistening in the confirmation of tears and groans,
Shading the dialogue that never surfaces
Justice in pale focus. . .constant, still held in out-of-the-blue faith
Please,
Do not allow your perspectives to dull
Waiting so long, I deafened the cries
The very cries I so blindly expressed. . .
Words etching existences imagined
I want you to take the hand of uncertainty
For as I have, I forever feel the tremors that have given me shape
Those very hands create what you dream,
And not what you fear
Take that hand,
Squeeze it tightly
I promise you, once you touch. . .I will never let you go
For I love you,
Oh, unexplained hold. . .
Help me escape the newborn deaths of today
Teach me how to step over the carcasses of calamity
Where the innocent die to inspire the remaining
Learn how to lead me into the lights of your eyes
Please,
Give me your beautiful hand,
I will take you to places you will never understand
And it will be okay
Because where I go,
The scarecrows roam with the roaring ravens
Making music with the pulse of their wings
With the sharp click of their beaks
Where I go,
Psalms of serenity's back way make love with impending day,
Spinning despair into the golden hairs of suspended May
Where I go,
innocent flowers freely giggle arrays of life
And his tail whips mightily,
His black velvet purrs arousing breaths of caramel verisimilitude
Where we stay,
In the forever grip of the trust you and I made,
Justice is pure water,
Cool and refreshing. . .ever smiling
Please,
My love, please
Hold onto this world with me
Give me your needs that I need. . .
And I promise perspective will prosper
The canvas, one blank, filled with detailed destiny of Color Surety
October 19th, 2014

time melts down in the death
obsession decays with death
death awakens me in the state of absolute tranquility,
tranquility not even bothered by the buzzing in my ears
I was thinking that death lives only in the heart of
one who wanted to keep cherished memories
but, alas; will diminish one day
like ripples carried by the water
however, on some occasions, death throws its shadow
becoming an uncontrollable passion, it bursts into flame
and flows in the wilderness as a stream of molten rock;
then comes together to become a mound of ashes
and scatters in the air blown by a gust to yield naught
which may be the linkage to never perishing another life
so what do you have to do with meeting death, it’s nothing
but the shadow of the moon that hanged on a limb of a tree;
what about dialogue with death,
it’s only a whisper you made to a star
actually, death is the resignation of self with closing eyes
in the dark that is darker than the darkest hour yonder horizon;
death is time ceased in an abysmal chasm where water
neither moves nor stands still but has petrified
and become gentle waves in the sea
over the edge of a mound of fossils
still and all,
when the dead one’s thoughts are floating on the quiet water
it becomes a raging billow higher than a mountain and swallows the sea
an irresistible yearning for the departed occurs in the heart of the living one,
if death is the four seasons that alive walk stepping on the time of oblivion
as the subsequence to a hatred, no one can torment death; no one can shake open death’s eyes
I wonder who said those clever things on death?
“how wonderful is death, …pale as yonder waning moon
with lips of lurid blue, ….”1
“sleep is lovely, death is better still, ….”2
as long as one is alive one can talk about death
death most beautiful; death would be beautiful forever
1. Shelley: Queen Mab 2. Quote from Heine

Before we implode or reach cluster one
What do you want from me, as you humans dry run
We are Poles apart in what you and I do
Marooned you will be, if you don't turn to be true
I am only but a sphere, but your wearing the inside out
Our futures lost for words as we enter life's drought
There is time for dialogue to take it back
Will it be a great day for freedom, or will we enter our black
Around the table of powers we have to keep talking
We had high hopes when we stooped, we may cease to stop walking
It beggars belief that we are heading into strife
Maybe one day we'll acknowledge, that were coming back to life
http://www.thehighlanderspoems.com/music-3.php

There is a spirit that watches over you
In the daylight hours, and nightime too.
You may not think that they are there
But there is a way to make you aware.
I learned the name of my angel a long time ago
Because I was interested and I wanted to know.
His name is "Maximus" and is with me here
To learn of his presence once made me fear.
Because what you do is watched all the day
The angel keeps tabs, God finds out that way.
I guess you think I'm being naive
Trust your faith, if you believe.
If you want to know your angel's name
There is a way to find out which is no game.
Say a prayer for three days in a row
And after each time ask him to reveal his name to you.
If you believe in him he will tell you true
If not, he may be silent to you.
I know of others who have tried this I can say
Some, have learned the names of their angels this way.
When you pray for their name do not think it absurd
Some, I know, will hear that singular word.
It won't come as a shout from heaven on high
But rather as a whisper, when your angel is nigh.
These spiritual beings are here for us all
Sometimes they wait just to here us call.
And when you do wouldn't if be grand
If you knew the spirit's name...who behind you stands!
Try it and see if you think I'm fooling around
Be honest with yourself with both feet on the ground.
As someday that spiritual angel you will greet
Wouldn't it be nice to be on a "first name" basis when you meet?
And if you try but do not hear their name
Keep on trying because your conviction was lame.
I know many will think I'm crazy with this
But knowing my angel's name has brought comfort and bliss.
So try it yourself and see if in kind
If your angel will speak to you...they really don't mind.
Because then a dialogue with them you can share,
Even if they never speak again, you'll know...they're there.

The past, a memory covered by fog
Nothing but shadows that still come and go
A silent movie without dialogue
This dark play with tears, is now a freak show
You caused the blackened skies, with all their storm
These eyes loosed salt water like ocean tides
Knew trembling hands that sought to be warm
And cried in anguish as a love had died
I was something, I'm now nothing after
In between is the fleeing tomorrow
On farthest hill lovers play in laughter
Never seeing the time they borrow
To be in love again, filled with wonder
Not the bitter man love split asunder
We met again, along the rushing shore
And felt the motion of the smoothest wave
To kiss hungry soft lips for love and more
And forgive the anger that was our slave
As there between the lighted sky to find
Love lost now found, grand as the widest view
A splendid world warm as the waves are kind
To wet soft quiet eyes with love that's true
We'll hold the tender hand to bond as one
While watching footprints fade in pebbled sand
And see the long red sky from setting sun
Falling into night 'till the stars command
To feel each wave upon the warmest skin
And touch the moment until dawn can begin
contest True Love Waits-2 English Sonnets

Finding the plot
Of lost innocence
engrained in untold memories
The silenced absence
in past present unspoken
stories well hidden
and therefore evoking
my past and my future
not mine and mine
Quite a mind-field
mines bombs blazing
artillery burning houses
My antecedent shelter of
generational tapestry
knotted not knotted
attached and attacked
in hindsight myopic
insight reflection distortion
Existential vertigo
imagination fictitious
'memesis' narrational
irrational in
un-disclosing reality
Approximation of personal
truth and forgetting
un-kown remembrance
what was and was not
what might have been
unsettling my journey
reconcilling projections
more real than the void
of silence screaming
Two photographs
unearthed post mortem
heritage disbelieving
acknowledgment in
second order ties that
bind generations
for later or worse
in not so new
beginnings
The baby-faced soldier
volunteered for fascist
idealised purity
insignia “Lebensraum”
in mind soul grenades
Mastering marches and race
for books to be burnt and bodies
alike the stench of 'smeltering'
flesh concentrated ashes
on the graveyard of living
hell horror abomination
Mislead but never
the less culpable
in complicity of non
resistance and passion
Small steps from juvenile
prodigy as child radio
speaker in brown shorts
and obedience
deluded megalomania
Meeting Mussolini
“Heil Hitler my Duce”
surviving Russian winters
of lice infested power
pulverised bodies
ideological mind
This is my history
my baby-faced father
wielding the guns
My mother instead
diving from high platforms
somersaulting into the pools
of water not yet turned
to blood of skins
into lampshades
bayonetted children
dispatched from
dignity freedom
in aberrated inhumanity
She was a champion
of the Reich
winning her laurels
in aesthetic beauty
representing
regime terror crashed crystals
of synagogues gay friendships
political cells
Roma wagons mental
asylums with refuge
refused in annihilation
exterminated in denial
and no mutiny displayed
Later saving roofs from
the fires of retaliation
suffering no doubt
in misplaced childhood
not yet knowing defeat
for a better world to be
dreamt of naively
Beautiful plaits wanting eyes
graceful in innocence of
a story unfolding
inside and around
etching into
the moment of
ancestral procreation
My history again
and insights lost never found
behind the veil and defence
of post-traumatic perpetration
cynical acceptance of what
has been regardless of
what was not to be disclosed
responsibility shunned
oozing into the next
generation of children
Never found plots
in aphonic dialogue
shouting so loudly
into the festering wounds
of un-explicable sadness
marching boots
of complicity
I have not walked
in history’s shoes
just in the silence
My own offspring...

Brothers killing brothers......a field of blood
sisters slaying sisters.......instead of bearing sons.
mothers ,daughters..fathers, sons
all dead and gone, kindred spirits slaughtered one by one
by the hand of those each should love.
I wonder if at the last moment they had second thoughts
Is this the way to go ..isn't there a better way?
Perhaps dialogue or patience would have been better
Less lives could have been lost ..less regrets to bear.....more hearts could have
been won.
Yet the war continues unabated..send in more troops is what we say.
Isn't there another way?
Too many orphans left.. ..uncared for and grieving
too many tears have been shed.... hearts harden.
Prisoners of war......wounded and shell shocked veterans....... physically
handicapped....mentally deranged....a terrible plight
both sides share the same fate....pain and sadness is all that's left
no one wins yet the war never ends.
Love's now a thing of the past
only anger and hatred remain
When, oh when will Peace prevail.